


Case 124: The Adventure Of The Freckled Frieze (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [159]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Art, Butt Plugs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, Dildos, Embarrassment, Exhaustion, F/M, Freckles, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nobility, Secretaries, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ A friend of Sherlock's would quite like to know why there are suddenly pictures of him about to go on display in an art gallery. Naked pictures. The great detective tracks down the culprit in this 'spotty' case, and ends with his very own work of art.Also mentioned as the case of the artist known as Wainwright.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northern_Gryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Gryphon/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It had been a difficult thing, being dead.

For John's sake more than any other reason my death at 'Reichenbach' had had to look convincing, which had meant three years on the run without the man I loved more than life itself. I travelled under a number of aliases while Luke and Miss Charlotta Bradbury remained my contact points in England. Indeed rather like the famous Sir Francis Drake I ended up going around the globe during that painful time, fully intending to keep clear of my homeland lest I endanger the man I loved more than life itself.

There were two small incidents that occurred among my acquaintances during those dark times, one minor and one major. The first was a small matter concerning our good Sergeant Valiant Henriksen up in Westmorland; naturally he did not know of my continued existence but in a letter he wrote to John expressing his condolences on my passing he mentioned that his cake-loving uncle was having problems over a factory that had opened near his house and whose noise and dirt were making his life unpleasant. Worse, the local councillors who should have reined in these people owned shares in the place which was why nothing had been done. I was able to use Luke to talk to the correct people and to put matters to rights.

The second matter arising was rather more serious and necessitated my personal involvement. It happened only days after my brief and almost certainly unwise return to England in 'Ninety-Three during which John actually caught sight of me at the unveiling of the Anteros statue in Piccadilly Circus. It was my own stupid fault; Luke had said that my love would be joining the family for the event and I could not help but take in the beauty of the man for the first time in over two years. Thankfully I was in disguise and Luke distracted him long enough for me to slip away.

I may or may not have cried that night over the unfairness of it all.

News of my passing had not quite reached all our acquaintances, and shortly after the encounter in Piccadilly a letter had arrived from Lord Theobald Hawke down in Wiltshire that he was concerned over his nephew and heir Mr. Harry Buckingham (Lord Theobald had as mentioned previously been very ill and by this time he rarely left his Wiltshire home, which presumably was why he had been unaware of my 'passing'). I had decided to decamp to the Isle of Wight for some time as I had felt that the extra distance would deter me from yet again foolishly endangering the man that I loved, but given the Hawke family's seeming propensity to attract ill-fortune like a magnet attracts iron filings I first went to see Lord Theobald. 

The observant reader will remember that Mr. Buckingham was, unbeknownst to his good self, the illegitimate offspring of Lord Theobald's ill-starred elder brother Lord Tobias and had been adopted as a baby by their sister Mary who had married a Salisbury businessman, one Mr. Henry Buckingham. He had also acted as steward for Lord Theobald, rather necessarily as he had inherited his title at the tender age of two although his father Lord Stephen, who had resigned the title in favour of his elder son in 1860, did step back up and the two gentlemen sustained matters until the old lord's passing in 1879. Mrs. Mary Buckingham had been unable to bear children so she and her husband had five years later officially adopted a very distant couson of theirs – sixth or seventh; I am not sure which – a circumstance further complicated by the fact that the boy who was a year younger than his step-brother had already been named Henry and wished to keep his name. This tangled web had been made necessary by the actions described in 'The Adventure Of The Hawke Inheritance' concerning Mrs. Mary Buckingham's sister Elizabeth, now gone from England and not the least bit missed.

As I had once said, the Borgias had nothing on some of the people in my life!

The ailing Lord Theobald had been worried over an apparent threat to divulge his cover-up to the newspapers, but some rapid inquiries that I undertook established that it had been merely a mis-reading of the letter involved. As the nobleman was clearly not long for this world and could I felt be trusted, I decided to reveal my true identity to him and I promised that I would keep a weather eye on his nephew for him. He died only two days after that meeting and I can only hope that my promise – which I was now about to have to honour and not for the last time – gave him peace in his final hours on this earth.

The new Lord Harry Hawke (III) whom the reader will remember we had met and saved the inheritance of some twelve years back was thirty-three years of age now. Three years back he had married a lady called Miss Alice Smith of whom I knew little except that John had said she had a reputation as something of a gold-digger, came from South Africa and was some thirteen years younger than the husband she had ensnared (John's words) when she was just seventeen. I assumed that she was probably not of great consequence socially, otherwise John would surely have remarked to me about it from those social pages that he hardly ever glanced at except if the newspaper just happened to be open when he just happened to be passing it. They had since had twin sons Tobias and Trelawney, the latter of whom would also require my assistance in later years. I could not know then that their union was set to have considerable repercussions for myself many years hence; indeed I was more distracted by the vision of male beauty before me as the nobleman was indeed the image of his true father and a most beautiful person inside and out. 

I remarked on this to John just before he was shown up and he coughed several times. Well, he _claimed_ that it was a cough. Interesting......

֍

“It is most definitely me, sir”, Lord Harry said, clearly vexed as he toyed with his blond curly hair. He gestured to the catalogue that he had brought with him. “I have a pattern of freckles along my left breast that resembles the Plough and it matches perfectly to this brazen fellow. And worse, the gentlemen with whom I work out with at the gymnasium will know that!”

He blushed almost as prettily as John did when.... no, not really the time.

“This is all your mother's fault!” John muttered unhelpfully. 

I sighed, but before I could say anything our visitor spoke.

“What do you mean by that, doctor?” he asked curiously.

John pointed to the depictions of some ten large drawings which in real life were each about two foot square and arranged as a frieze. Each showed a gentleman going about his daily business in a London street, at a bank, on an omnibus, in a cab, walking in the park.... all perfectly mundane except for one small detail. Or perhaps one rather large detail; the gentleman in question was stark naked! And the worse thing was that John was right!

No, scratch that. The worst thing was that he _knew_ that he was right because of that story that I had made him read, damnation! Mother was currently going through another of her historical phases (artwork again; I now shuddered every time I saw Constable's 'Haywain'!) and she had written a graphic story about how Rodin's statue 'The Thinker' had decided that it was time to stop thinking and start doing, which meant strolling around London uncaring of the fact that he was _sans apparel_. Clearly some artist had read my mother's work and had felt 'inspired'. Ugh!

“My mother writes the sort of fictional stories that give people bad dreams at night”, I admitted. “She might well be the inspiration for this.”

I felt that he would have been quite justified in being most upset over this but I had misjudged the fellow.

“Your mother is 'Becky Rosen'?” he exclaimed. “Oh I am so, _so_ sorry! My mother is one of those ladies who likes her stories and she actually read some to me when I was growing up. Lord alone knows how I turned out so normal; I still have the occasional nightmare.”

I was grateful for his understanding, which of course left the small – well, the rather large matter of naked pictures of him soon being on display in a major London gallery.

“Might we not try to persuade the gallery to withdraw them?” John asked.

“That would be disastrous”, I said although I felt bad at the way my comments made our visitor's face fall. “Not that I would be disinclined to take such an approach, my lord, but you know what the general public are like. Once they are told they cannot see something then they will strive doubly as hard to get a look at it. And someone from the gallery would surely talk over such an attempt, or worse leak a picture to the newspapers. You are sure that this is your good self?”

“I recognized at least three of the pictures”, he sighed. “The only redeeming factor, such as it is, is that these are small and the details can only be seen under a magnifying glass. That is most definitely the Round Table Club and my fellow members will recognize that fact. I will never be able to use the place again! The bank is Lloyd's just along from there; you can make out the unusual curved steps into the place as they have a ramp up one side. And the street is the one containing my London house although fortunately one cannot see the place itself or I might never be able to show my face in the capital!”

“I do not think that it is your _face_ that they will be looking at”, John said again unhelpfully, eliciting a even deeper blush. He was right – 'poor Lady Hawke' had been one of my first thoughts – but now was so not the time.

“It is only a small private gallery”, I said consolingly. “Still, if word gets around it might still draw a sizeable crowd.”

John barely suppressed a snigger at the word 'sizeable'. He was not being very helpful today. There would be Consequences for that later and it would serve him right if I decided to make him suffer a long and bumpy cab ride immediately after them. With the pleasurer inside of him all the way.

It was probably bad of me in enjoying him shake when he caught my look. Oh well.

“Have you tried to contact the artist?” I asked, not smirking at someone's evident discomfiture.

“I do not really wish to approach this 'M. R. S. Wainwright' myself”, the nobleman sighed. “I fear that he might be the sort of fellow to take advantage of such a move to gain even more publicity. And....”

He tailed off looking decidedly awkward. John looked at him curiously.

“Because this Mr. Wainwright clearly knows rather a lot about you”, I said, “and is therefore most likely someone of your acquaintance.”

He nodded glumly.

“I have not of course told dear Lizzie”, he said. “She is expecting and the last thing she needs right now is any extra stress.”

(Thankfully the handsome young fellow as not into bigamy; I later found out that Lady Hawke was for some reason not enamoured of her first name and preferred to be known by her middle one).

“How did you find out about all this?” I asked.

“From the only other person who, I desperately hope, knows about this sorry mess”, he said. “Callington; he brought me the catalogue.”

“Who is this 'Callington'?” John asked.

“Brass† Callington, my secretary”, the nobleman said. “He said that his wife is a cleaner at the gallery and I presume that she showed him this horror. He recognized the steps and used a magnifying glass to check.... ahem, other details, after which he came straight to me.”

“Is he trustworthy?” I asked. 

“Sound as a bell”, Lord Hawke said firmly. “I would trust him with my life. He was almost as mortified as I was by the whole business; it was he who suggested that I might bring you in on it. Is there anything that you can do?”

I thought for a moment. Whatever way this case did work out it was most definitely going to require careful handling.

“I can see _some_ ways to proceed with an investigation”, I said. “I shall need to speak to your secretary to start with. Is he available?”

Lord Hawke smiled.

“This morning is a rare time occasion he is not my shadow”, he said. “His wife too is expecting and as I knew that he had family visiting yesterday I told him to take today off. He resisted even that and eventually we settled that he would have the morning at home and catch up on my paperwork this afternoon.”

“I think given that he would likely feel constrained if you were present, my lord, it might be better if I were to see him at his home”, I said. “If you leave us his address we shall call on him and talk to him there.”

“You think that he might lie?” the nobleman said incredulously. “He is as honest as the day is long, I am sure!”

I smiled at his defence of his servant. At times like these he reminded me so much of his ill-starred father. And he had named his eldest son after the fellow. I hoped.... well, we would have to just watch over them all as much as possible.

“I very much doubt that he would _lie”_ , I said, “but the more relaxed a person is the more revealing they tend to be, in my experience. It is my belief there may be some fact – possibly something that seems insignificant – that he does know and might not even consider worth mentioning. I only wish to keep him at his ease, sir.”

“That is good”, Lord Hawke smiled. “Good men like him are hard to find; I almost found myself missing falling over him this morning. As you say, the small things are often important.”

“One rather large 'thing' in this instance!” John muttered. 

Poor Lord Hawke turned bright red.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

The nobleman wrote his secretary's address on a notepad, thanked us for our time and left. 

“He lives about a quarter of an hour away”, John said looking at the address. “Shall we go now?”

I shook my head,

“I have a telegram to send first”, I said. “I shall walk to the post office and be back in a little under ten minutes . Then we shall have an hour before we leave for Paddington.”

“Why the delay?” he asked curiously.

“Because in the time I am away you will divest yourself of all your clothing and then sit yourself stark naked in this chair, just like the seventh frieze of our latest client”, I said calmly, possibly enjoying his shocked expression rather more than was seemly. “And when I come back I will be doing everything I can up to and including sucking and jerking you off to make you totally lose your composure.”

He was still whining when I left, the smile on my face a mile wide.

֍

“John? Are you ready?”

One very naked and physically broken English city doctor glared up at me from where he lay prone in the chair where I had just made him come four times, the last of which had involved fucking him from underneath and then inserting the plug which was still inside of him. His breathing was perhaps a tad fast and most definitely irregular but I supposed that what was left of him was happy. He doubtless did not have the muscle co-ordination to manage a smile.

“You broke me!” he moaned. “How can I go out looking like this?”

“That is an idea”, I mused. “Perhaps when I find this Wainwright artist I could ask them to do a frieze based on you. All I would need surely is someone obliging who can photograph you naked....”

His breathing was getting even faster. I smiled in reassurance.

“You have ten minutes to recover”, I said consolingly. “At the end of that time I have arranged with Mrs. Harvelle to send you up a slice of pie to help.”

I did not mention the knowing look that I had got when I had spoken to the landlady. Clearly she had known from my expression what had happened upstairs and equally clearly that had been the rifle that I had seen on the table behind her. Plus John would have been mortified. Well, even more mortified.

He moaned as he rolled in an attempt to get up then yelped as the plug caught him unawares.

I allowed myself another smirk.

֍

I held my love's hand all the way to Paddington. It was January and he was cold. And the look of adoring love that he gave me as he snuggled – yes, it was snuggling! - into me was almost too much.

The glare I got when I helped him out of the cab at our destination and he yelped as he stepped down onto the hard pavement was also adorable, but I kept quiet about that.

Mr. Brass Callington lived in a well-kept small terraced house not far from the Great Western Railway terminus, and as his master had said both he and his wife were home. She was presumably attending to something out the back of the house for he was looking after a young boy of about three years of age and a baby girl when we arrived. He looked almost relieved to see us and I could guess why.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, he said, bowing to us. “This is an honour.”

I looked around the small room.

“I take it that your good lady wife is busy with her.... work?” I asked far too innocently.

John looked at me curiously and then at our host who had blushed fiercely at what had seemed an innocuous question.

“You are too generous to trifle with me, sir”, Mr. Callington said quietly. “You have to help me!”

“We have to help you how?” John asked, confused.

“We have to help him out of a situation where his good lady wife is producing nude artwork of his employer”, I said calmly.

John spluttered at that.

_“What?”_

“I so hoped that you would be able to do something”, the secretary moaned. “Your mother started all this, after all!”

John looked even more confused. I smiled at him.

“'M. R. S. Wainwright' was an invention”, I said, “to protect the gentle sensibilities of the Victorian public from the idea that a female had ever seen _that_ much of a male. Take just the letters and you get 'Mrs.'. Your wife created those works of art inspired, I will admit, by my dear mother's literary efforts, and a gallery then went and snatched them up.”

“She actually made me read the stories they were based on!” the secretary shuddered. “There is not enough beer in the world to get that out of my poor head! And we needed the money!”

“What money? John asked.

“I am sure that the gallery paid handsomely for your wife's 'art'”, I said. “And your own.”

The poor fellow had somehow contrived to go even redder. I felt quite sorry for him.

“Lord Hawke is a fine figure of a man”, I said, 'missing' the sharp look I was getting from a medical personage in the vicinity, “and you yourself have artistic talent in that you sketched him during the time that you worked with him. Your wife saw the sketches and decided to make a frieze out of them – except that 'inspired' as she was by my mother's terrible writings she removed poor Lord Hawke's clothing, even in that one when he is, ahem, 'standing out' at the athletics track.”

“She got that from the 'real' story of the Ancient Olympics!” Mr. Callington said. “Horrible!”

“I think that I see a way out here”, I said. “I am sure that Lord Hawke can be fund the purchase of this work before it reaches the gallery, and that your wife can provide something rather less incriminating.”

“But he will sack me when he finds out!” Mr. Callington protested.

“I shall explain to him that I used a contact to purchase the work so that it might not be traced to him”, I said. “And that the artist has promised not to portray him in that way ever again. I am sure that he would accept that.”

The poor fellow gasped his relief.

“However”, I said, “there is one thing that you – or at least your wife - could do for me personally.”

֍

Lord Hawke was delighted to obtain his incriminating pictures from the artist known as Wainwright (which I later learned had been Mrs. Callington's maiden name) and even more delighted when I was able to assure him that such a thing would never happen again. Some subtle pressure from the right quarters persuaded the gallery to commission some of Mrs. Callington's less, ahem, revealing work which, to her and her husband's surprise, rapidly became sought after and enabled them to eventually move to a larger house. She very kindly paid me back for my kindness with a drawing she had done from a photograph of a masked gentleman sitting stark naked in a chair with only a conveniently placed book to cover his modesty – another gentleman with a quite distinct pattern of freckles.

John blushed so prettily every time I reminded him of it. And as it turned out we would see Lord Hawke again in our travels – the very next week in fact!

֍

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † Named after Brass Crosby (1725-1793), a Stockton-on-Tees lawyer who later became Lord Mayor of London. His standing up to parliament when they tried to prosecute a London printer who had actually dared to print their proceedings landed him in the Tower of London, but the city mobs rioted such that the judges refused to hear his case and he had to be let out. This led to the phrase 'bold as Brass'.


End file.
